


Left Behind

by halbermarco



Series: Three Nouns [1]
Category: Laid Bare by P.B., Original Work
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Minor Character Death, Parent Death, kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 12:12:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18135599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halbermarco/pseuds/halbermarco
Summary: Attic • Thrill • FruitYoung Devan Balderich is a fine observer.When things aren't where they are supposed to be, he becomes suspicious and investigates.





	Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Devan's name is pronounced like DEE-van, not Dehvan. (Oder für meine deutschsprachigen Kumpanen, die vermutlich auch die einzigen sein werden, die das je lesen: es ist Diewän und nicht Däwän, danke schön.)

Whenever Devan Balderich had enough of his life, he found himself sneaking up to the attic in the middle of the night. The reason for this is a rather complex one, for it had not crossed the young boy's mind before to visit the attic, especially not when he was supposed to be asleep in his bedroom, or perhaps reading one of the many books his father demand he read.

No, you see, it had only started when, one day, it occurred to the boy that ever since his mother's passing, every single thing that was once hers disappeared from its place in their house - every picture of her, every book she owned, every physical memory Devan could think of, removed from sight, piece by piece.

Now, Devan had always been a fairly smart kid, his mother had often said this to him. He was, by extension, quite the keen observer, as well. So, of course, he never thought to ask his father where all of his mother's belongings had gone. For, although the boy was only ten, he could read his father's face of stone with a careful excellence, and the man had a _very_ specific expression of resentment whenever his deceased wife was so much as mentioned. The child could only imagine what would happen if he brought up his observations.

Once, Devan actually noticed an old necklace his mother had worn frequently stuffed away in a random drawer. All it did was sit there and wait to be touched, admired, worn, and of course, just as Devan had reached out to take it and fulfill its deepest wishes, his father had caught him staring at it in wonder. He had promptly started yelling until Devan cried and apologized.

The next day, when his father was out running errands, Devan dared to confirm his suspicions and searched the same drawer for the necklace, only to find it stripped of its immense treasure.

From that day forward, Devan made sure his mother was as dead and buried in their conversations - however far and few in-between they had them - as she was in real life.

But soon-to-be scientist Devan Balderich did not stop investigating the phenomenon that he kept witnessing. All he needed, though, was more data to evaluate, and soon enough, his father gave him another curious thing to figure out; before his mother had died, Devan could not remember his father going up to the attic of their house, a behavior that only surfaced around the same time all of his mother's possessions vanished. Devan never saw a pattern emerging, no calculated intervals, instead he observed rather spontaneous instances in which his father would be hurried, stomping up the staircase and returning seconds later, a minute at most.

He thought, as the attic was the last variable in the equation which required solving, that he needed to see what was up there. And he found that his only chance at doing so undiscovered was if he did it at nighttime. For his father had an exceptionally deep sleep, so Devan rarely ever had to make sure he was being quiet when he snuck out of his bedroom and up to the attic. Despite that, Devan experienced a wonderful and exciting kind of thrill, doing something forbidden like this - no one would expect such a thing from sweet, anxious and innocent Devan Balderich who had always listened to his father and mother, without fail, and would not even _think_ of doing the opposite.

One could hardly believe he was his father's son sometimes, as he shared close to no similarities with the man and had everything in common with his late mother. His father had turned cold, ruthless in his ways, cared little for empathy, while his mother made for the polar opposite. In some ways it had created a perfect match, as long as it lasted. But now, Devan realized that his father might see too much of his mother in him, and all of the love that was once there slowly, but surely, turned into a distaste of his own flesh and blood.

That first night in the attic, Devan found everything his mother had ever owned, and he cried the whole time he looked at it. The researcher in him still made sure to take notes, be it with a shaky hand, of what he saw: everything had been discarded into several large cardboard boxes, randomly thrown in without care. Each night, Devan took to discovering the contents of each box with careful mindfulness, and he would come upon a different thing every time: a journal from her teenage years he was too embarrassed to read, the night after that a bracelet she received as a wedding gift.

By the light of day, he would not act differently in front of his father, so as to not arouse suspicions.

In the dark of night, he found the comfort he sought in the presence of all the things left behind.

The oddest find of them all was a soft, handmade plushie, in the shape of an otherworldly fruit. The threads had loosened from being used until it was no longer possible, and cotton balls were falling out from a hole in the fabric. Devan remembered it as his favorite toy from his childhood, as the one thing he could not go to bed without. It was a gift from his mother, something he cherished so much he took it everywhere he could - until one day, it tore.

His mother had a very hard time calming him down, an even harder time when she tried to get him to sleep without it - she had promised him to fix it right up, first thing in the morning, he could help her if he wanted to. Only because of that promise, Devan accepted the fate of a comfortless sleep. When he woke up on the next day, even earlier than he usually would, he had run into his parents' bedroom to see if his mother was already up. His father had told him that she was, but that she had gone into town to fetch some supplies to repair his beloved toy.

She had never returned from that trip, and the plush fruit had never been fixed. That had been two years ago.

He had not given any thought to this stupid thing, which now laid in his hands the exact way he remembered it. He picked up every piece of cotton that had fallen out and stuffed it back through the hole with angry determination, tears rushing down his face. He had sworn that he would not take any item into his bedroom, in fear of his father noticing what he had been up to in the last few weeks.

This particular night, Devan made an exception of his own rule - and, clutching the plush fruit to his heart, he whispered a promise to the stars;

_I'm going to fix it, mom,_ he said. _I'm going to fix it first thing in the morning._

Somehow, he slept easier that night; with a plush fruit tucked under his pillow and a fine intent for the morning.


End file.
